“Oh no, you do not have to—”
“I’d like to. Please, allow me to accompany you?”
She shouldn’t. But she’d promised to let him dare her a bit until Christmas. And though being near him felt like the most dangerous risk she could take, what damage could be done in the village? Three days and then she’d tell Newburton her choice and settle into a nice, placid life devoid of all daring.
She strode forward. “Very well then. You may accompany me.”
He followed her down the stairs. “Are we taking a carriage or riding? I think I finally feel up to it. Head and arm are much better this morning.”
“The baskets are in a cart. A groom will drive them. I thought to have a ride this morning.” A fast, hard ride to rid her mind of dreams of George.
He stopped in the foyer and whipped his greatcoat around his shoulders. Then he threw open the door and burst into the freezing morning air. He looked over his shoulder at her, his gaze raking over her from head to foot. “Skirts? Don’t you usually wear breeches?”
She trotted after him to the stables, breathless. “I do. Christiana threw mine away.”
“Weren’t you wearing a pair when you were up the tree?”
“Irredeemably ruined. The, ah, blood from your head wound.”
He scratched the back of his head. “Ah. Sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
George tossed her a look that made her insides melt. “Damn shame about the breeches. You’ll have to ride sidesaddle today. I prefer you riding astride.”
* * *
George paced into the stables, not waiting to see Jane’s reaction to his double entendre. He needed her as riled and wild as he felt. She’d strode into his bedroom in the deep purple riding habit that made her hair darker and her skin brighter. He’d had to bite his tongue till he tasted blood to keep from grabbing her and tossing those voluminous skirts up to find the long, shapely legs beneath.
He bit his tongue now because whether his comment about riding astride had riled Jane, it had definitely caused exquisite chaos in his own body.
Her horse was already saddled and ready, and he refocused his muscles on the business of saddling Little John instead of the business of throwing Jane’s skirts up and pressing her into the soft hay.
He patted Little John’s neck. “Patience, boy. We’ll be galloping in no time.” Damn, did he need a gallop.
Jane joined him, cooing at her mare, Apple.
He rolled his bad shoulder. It ached more than he’d like for a jolting ride. But Jane’s skirts and sidesaddle demanded a more sedate pace than they’d normally take. Jane was an excellent horsewoman astride, but a terror to behold when perched sideways.
He led Little John through the stables and into the yard, helping Jane to mount before mounting himself. Then they set off, the cart with the baskets settling into a more leisurely pace behind them.
Jane yawned. “We should arrive before the cart and have a few minutes to pass as we please. The inn there has a lovely puff pastry.”
“The melty ones with the sugar on top?”
“The same, and I’m famished. I’d murder you to get a bite, George. Shall we procure a few?”
He chuckled. “Yes, if only to save my own hide. Additionally, I’d hate to anger your suitors. Quillsby thinks you’re wasting away. Keeps offering you more food at every turn.”
“I’m glad I’m not marrying him. He’d have me plump as a pudding before our first year.”
“You’d look lovely plump.” She’d look lovely in any shape.
“You are a rogue, Sir George.”
“Sir George is a knight and so cannot be a rogue. He always tells the truth, especially about his Lady Jane.”
She flushed.
